


On slow and smoky fire

by fifthnorthumberland



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: 5+1, BAMF!Moran, M/M, Pre-Reichenbach, Pre-Slash, mention of violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-02-26
Updated: 2015-02-05
Packaged: 2017-10-31 18:18:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,073
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/347027
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fifthnorthumberland/pseuds/fifthnorthumberland
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In six parts:</p>
<p>i. The Tiger<br/>ii. The Sniper<br/>iii. The Fire<br/>iv. The Fever<br/>v. The Fall<br/>vi. The Saints</p>
<p>Title used to be "The five times Sebastian Moran is damaged and the one time Jim Moriarty is (permanently)"</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Tiger

i.

He’d been discharged for months when he followed a man-eating tiger down a drain in India. He’d been roaming around, stealing himself from the world and waiting for something to happen. Days and days he spent sitting at the window of his second storey bedroom in an inexpensive and unsanitary hostel, looking at the busy life below him.

Hundreds of people came by, as the hostel was right in the middle of the market. Hundreds of bodies transported themselves from stand to stand, exchanging, arguing, talking, gossiping, waiting, eating, drinking, working –and yet, nothing seemed to move.

He was restless, a caged animal, hungry and weary and barely slept. It was always too hot and there were always so many noises that filled his mind that he could hardly close his eyes before it was all too much again.

Quickly enough, he found his way into the black market, meeting men who spoke a little English in bars they owned, early in the morning and late at night, to talk business. They financed the expeditions, the hunt and he financed their trafficking by providing them with the furs of the precious animals he’d slay in the jungle. He slept better within the humidity and the deafening noises of the jungle nightlife.

That lasted for a time. When the men he worked with discovered he was selling to others, to the white Englishmen they didn’t want anything to do with, they made sure he knew the deal was over. Within three days, Sebastian moved out of the city and was cut off from his main financial resources.

After that, he travelled. He roamed. He kept quiet and didn’t try anything that would expose him. A couple of times, he found English-speaking Indian men who were hungry enough for money, for danger, for food, to execute burglaries he’d plan. It was good, though it paid according to the amount of risk implied.

Sebastian Moran was beginning to wonder if he’d better get back to England and slum it out over there, when he heard of the tiger.

The beast roamed around at night, hungry, restless, trapped in the city. No one knew where it came from; no zoos nearby, no jungle. Sebastian didn’t pretend to know more about the beast than anyone else in the village, but he felt a connection to it other than of fear, which set him apart from everyone else.

He wanted to see the tiger. He wanted to hunt it down and see if it was all he’d hoped it would be; restless, hungry, wild, and dangerous. He wanted to kill the beast.

Down a drain in a village with a name he doesn’t remember now, he looked the tiger in the eyes. A shiver ran down his spine and he knew he’d been right: no one could ever tame this sort of animal. A smile stretched on his face as the realization that he was just like that tiger crept up on him and the feline crawled forward, one heavy paw in front of the other, cornering him.

He’d gotten out with a wound on his side, running from his first ribs to his hip. He brings back to England one of the tiger's canines. 

Months later, he meets a strange, powerful man who offers him a job and a room in a brothel on Conduit street. The man's name is Jim Moriarty.


	2. The Sniper

ii.

Sebastian accompanies Moriarty to some business meetings. They meet other criminals (though none as notorious as Jim) in empty spaces; bars owned by people who owe Moriarty a favour, industrial warehouses, hotel rooms –once they even met a group of Chinese smugglers in Regent’s Park. Jim found that one particularly funny as he made them walk around and stop at every bush as they followed him like a group of tourists. Cruel joke –though that would definitely not come even close to Sebastian and his new boss’ definition of cruel.

During these meetings, they play safe -by their standards. Sebastian, if he is not at Moriarty’s side or a few steps behind, will be posted up a rooftop or at a tenth storey window with his riffle set up.

The afternoon things go awry, Sebastian stands a few steps behind Moriarty as he and a Colombian woman talk business. Sebastian doesn’t know exactly what this deal they’re negotiating is about, but as Moriarty and she start talking money transactions and prices for smuggled drugs, he begins to understand that she might be a big one. Might be dangerous; she’s way too self-assured to be standing here alone without protection when she knows she's in danger. Odd; Jim’s not mentioned anything, didn’t take any particular precautions. He always takes precautions.

Sebastian can’t help but think that he should have as the woman grows exasperated, then angry, then furious when Moriarty refuses to lower a price. He watches her closely, loosing track of the conversation he already wasn’t following. She closes her eyes and sighs, shaking her head. Moriarty is stiff as a plank; Sebastian can read the signs of him growing impatient. The woman is losing her temper and he’s beginning to know Jim well enough to tell that it won’t be long before chaos ensues. His boss is not a very patient man.

When a silence begins to stretch and he understands the deal is off, he watches Moriarty turn to him and nod without looking at him. This either means “ _Go get the car, Seb, I’m bored_ ” or “ _Fix this for me, Seb, get rid of them_ ”.

Calmly, he makes his way in front of Jim and watches the woman freeze, afraid. Her wide eyes fly to his hand making its way to his back, where he keeps his gun tucked beneath the band of his trousers, but when his hand comes back around armed and aimed at her, she smiles.

He doesn’t spot the sniper but turns around and jumps on Jim to pull them both down. He doesn’t know who the target is. He feels the sting of the bullet in his thigh and Moriarty lying still beneath him. He hears him whisper “ _Play dead_ ” and does so. He’s losing blood; he knows and feels himself bleeding out. He holds his breath. Holds the scream of pain, he holds it, _goddamn it_ , he holds it.

The woman leaves, her heals clacking on her way out. He hears the door shut and feels Moriarty shimmy his way out of underneath him. They both gasp and breathe in and out and Sebastian can’t hold the sob that comes out of his mouth. He’s beginning to grow cold and there are spots in his vision.

“Boss, you’re losing me here.”

Moriarty looks down at him, brows furrowed and a grimace on his lips. He looks confused, angry.

“Bleeding out” Sebastian manages as an explanation between biting down cries.

The last thing he sees before he passes out is Jim nodding and reaching for his mobile. It’s like the end of a dream. Nothing makes sense anymore. He isn’t going to die, though.

 

He wakes up in his apartment. In his bed. In a hospital gown. His legs hurts, _Jesus fucking Christ that hurts_ , and there’s an IV attached to his hand. Blood transfusion and morphine. Nice.

He looks around and is surprised to see Jim leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed. He’s smiling at him.

When Sebastian tries to say “Hello, what are you doing here?” and it comes out as a grunt, Jim laughs nervously and walks into the room gingerly. Sebastian has never seen him hesitate so.

“Don’t like hospitals much,” says Jim as he stops and sits on the bench between Sebastian’s bed and the room’s only window. “But then again, this isn’t a hospital. I guess it’s the sick, wounded and dying who annoy me.”

Sebastian doesn’t know what to say, isn’t sure he could speak if he wanted to, and so he doesn’t try.

“Not really your color, this” Jim offers, pointing disdainfully at the gown. He smiles awkwardly again.

He’s trying, Sebastian realizes. It makes him smile.


	3. The Fire

iii.

Disposing of evidence is not the best part of the job, Sebastian’s got to admit to himself, but he does like it.

When bodies are evidence, it always gets nasty, no matter how hard he tries to avoid the blood stains on his shirt. Bodies are complicated and messy and need planning. You can’t just go to the Thames and throw a body in without anyone noticing, God knows that would make his job easier. Jim tells him how to deal with the unlucky sod of the day, but rarely instructs him on how to get rid of ex-clients or targets once he’s gotten what he wants out of them.

When tools are evidence, smeared with blood or fingerprints, Sebastian generally burns them or tosses them in a bin when he’s miles away from the target, but sometimes, he keeps the tools. No one, not a living or dying soul, would make him throw away his Beretta, even after he’s dirtied the pistol with guts. His knives, too, he keeps and cleans and stores away until he needs them again. Not everything is disposable.

When chosen locals of execution or torture are the evidence, he’s been instructed to burn them down. That, he enjoys particularly.

He’s walking –he’s stopped limping not too long ago- to where Jim is standing, arms crossed and eyes fixed on the building Sebastian’s just sprinkled with gasoline. He puts down the gas tank next to himself and stands beside his boss. Without saying a word, Jim nods and Sebastian takes his favorite pistol out and aims at the warehouse where he was shot week prior. He shoots right back.

Oh, the sweet smell of revenge: gasoline and burning wood, scorching metal and everything falling down, consuming itself up. This revenge is vain; it’ll make no difference. No one is killed or even hurt, no message is sent, but the building burns to the ground and soon there will be nothing left of it but ashes.  It was Jim’s idea and it made Sebastian grin. He's almost touched, really, that his boss thinks of his being wounded an offense. _Almost_ touched, because, really, Moriarty is probably more offended that things didn't turn out the way he'd planned than by the injury to his employee. Still, it's something, and he's glad to help.

With his eyes closed, he feels rather than sees the flickering orange from behind his eyelids. For a moment, there is nothing but the crackling sound of everything falling apart, the smell of gasoline and the warmth spreading along his limbs as he stands before a ruin-in-the-making beside the King of Chaos. Would that make him the prince? Or rather the page? He doesn’t even care, as long as he gets to be part of it. He's grown to like this situation quite a lot.

He breathes in and sighs contentedly before he reaches for the cigarettes in the back pocket of his jeans. He brings the packet to his mouth and picks a cigarette between his lips. He opens his eyes, finally, to see the burning mess, and to look for his lighter. Left breast pocket inside his jacket. He tucks the gun back into his waistband and opens his jacket and just as his hand reaches for the pocket, Jim steps in front of him, and puts a hand on his wrist, stopping the motion. Sebastian had almost forgotten he wasn’t alone. He doesn't let go of the gun. Jim's other hand goes for the lighter inside the breast pocket as he says “Allow me.”

Sebastian freezes, cigarette dangling from his half-opened mouth, arms and hands very still between Jim’s fingers and remaining on the grip of his revolver. The air is suddenly grave.

Jim finds the custom made lighter and slowly slips his hand out of the pocket. His other hand lets go of Sebastian’s wrist and Sebastian lets go of the gun. Jim closes the suit jacket, splaying his hand on the lapel as if to flatten it out. He looks at his fingers over Sebastian’s chest, then at the lighter.

His thumb brushes against the inscription. He mouthes the word “Shikari”. Sebastian had had it made in Bengal while he was there.

“A souvenir, I presume.”

It isn’t a question, so Sebastian doesn’t answer.

Jim’s eyes turn to Sebastian’s own as he flicks the lighter open and rolls the pad of his thumb against the flint wheel. Gas, fire.

Sebastian stands very still and closes his lips around the cigarette as Jim brings the lighter up near his face. The cigarette sizzles when Sebastian inhales and inhales, and inhales because Moriarty won’t stop burning the cigarette’s end and soon Sebastian is chocking, eyes wide and he wants to cough. He brings his hand up in panic, wraps two fingers around the cigarette and burns them in the process because Moriarty hasn’t closed the lighter, is keeping it there. He jerks back, dropping the cigarette and instinctively pushing Moriarty's hand away.

“Shit, Jim, what was that for?”

In an instant, Jim is back on him, hands gripping the lapels of his jacket, pulling him in until their faces are inches away.

“You _do not_ push me away. Ever.” Jim says, almost quietly, through gritted teeth.

Looking into those dark eyes, Sebastian stays still. He’s not going to back down now. Ranks are being established, fine, he knew he wasn’t the alpha male in their duo. He’ll stand down and let Jim rule the world. But he’s not going to start being afraid of Jim.

“Understood?” Jim tugs on the jacket, and then lets it go.

He steps back and looks at Sebastian from head to toe, then back up and takes Sebastian’s damaged hand in his gently. He strokes the coin-size wound with his fingertips tenderly. Sebastian lets himself be handled and doesn’t dare move when Jim brings his hand to his own lips, pressing them to the rising, reddened skin.

Then Jim lets his hand go, takes a step back and smiles a small, private smile. Still looking at Sebastian’s hand, he says

“Here, another souvenir.” and takes another step back towards the car that just rolled around the corner of the building behind them.

Sebastian follows.


	4. The Fever

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "You can make yourself enter somewhere frightening if you believe you'll profit from it. The natural response is to flee but you don't act that way anymore." Jenny Holzer

Siberia at this time of year is beyond cold. Sebastian’s Russian is far from excellent, but from what little he understood when he spoke to the hotel receptionist, this is pretty mild for mid-December in Yakutsk. Still, minus thirty-five is below his standards for “mild”. As he takes off his lined leather gloves, he tries to remember he’s in the coldest bloody city in the world for a reason.

Jim has sent him to the coldest inhabited place on Earth, populated by barely a quarter of a million people, because he has business to be taken care of here, of all places. And apparently, it can’t be done by just anyone. Jim often employs gunmen for various jobs he doesn’t particularly care for. He values Sebastian enough at this point to reserve him the fun ones. Complicated assassinations have grown to be his cup of tea, more so than the mindless spot, aim, and shoot. So here he is, in the coldest of the cold, with instructions to terminate the career of a sixty-something man.

They’re staying in the same hotel, his target and him, both here on business. The target, from what Sebastian has gathered from watching him thoroughly for a few days, is not here to enjoy the local dried fish and boiled horse’s head, but to finish a transaction. He’s got a luxury car with a driver, tailored suits and the suite occupying the top floor, just above Sebastian’s single bed room, mid-day meetings every day since Sebastian’s arrived; must be someone important. In this region, someone important has got to be a business man, what with the gold and diamond market. And he’s British. For some reason, that sticks and, it’s not that it bothers Sebastian, but it’s surprising. Usually, when Jim sends him abroad to assassinate someone, it’s not an Englishman.

All that is printed out black on white in the file Jim had handed him back in London. Sebastian’s read it through. He decided to leave the file in London in favour of a more direct approach. While he can appreciate Jim’s way of planning, his organized information and ‘no alarms and no surprises’ policy, he has to admit he misses the hunt. For business back in London, he’d have done this quickly: he would have punched in the address into a GSP, drove to the location, taken one shot, disposed of evidence or the body if necessary, and called it a day. But here… he feels like he’s back in India, after that tiger. Except he’s much farther up north and the tiger is a shark. Still, it gets Sebastian’s blood going.

 It’s almost four in the afternoon in Yakutsk and the man he’s after seems to be in. Sebastian knows it isn’t polite to kill a man before his four o’clock tea, but, for once, the man is alone, in his room and, from what Sebastian has observed, defenseless. He goes in for the kill.

\--

While Jim has a few properties all over the city and a bit far out too, he always meets Sebastian either in his office or his flat. His Conduit Street office is a terribly posh Victorian study with staff that brings them tea and an assistant that Jim keeps around to manage some of his more casual business.  This time, once he sends a “I’m done” to his boss, Sebastian is summoned to Jim’s flat.

Walking in through the building’s main door and making his way to the elevator, Sebastian starts to feel very warm. He doesn’t think much of it: it could simply be the contrast between outdoor or indoor, or Siberia’s bitter cold versus London’s chilly morning. He did feel like he couldn’t decide if he was warm or cold all through the plane ride, though, so he doesn’t rule out the possibility of it being the beginnings of a fever.

 He hears the ding of the elevator and steps off into Jim’s apartment. It’s posh, but in a simpler, minimalist way that Sebastian appreciates for its efficiency. There are neat places to hide guns and the temperature is self-adjusted.

He finds Jim in the living room, sitting on the sofa, his back to the floor to ceiling windows. Jim looks oddly cozy, wearing a tightly knit sweater and slacks, sitting with a cup of tea.

“Morning, Sebastian. How was Siberia? You look terrible” his boss asks, an air of faux concern and a sarcastic smile painted on his face.

A smile tugs at Sebastian’s lips for he knows in some capacity that there is some care and fondness behind the jest.

“Cold,” he says smiling at Jim, sitting in the plush chair facing Jim, “Your man is dead and buried where no one will find him unless they are fond of horse shit.”

Jim smiles, but he isn’t as delighted as Sebastian expected him to be. His look is distant and he just nods absently.

Sebastian reaches for the second cup and saucer that were apparently waiting for him on the coffee table and grabs the teapot to pour himself a warm cup. Every since he stepped into the apartment, he hasn’t taken off his coat, feeling cold. A shiver makes him tremble slightly and he spills his tea.

“My, my, Sebastian, have we caught a cold?” Jim tuts.

“I’m fine.” and just as he says it, he starts to feel heated and he knows his face is starting to turn red.

“Oh, no, please, I have no time for this, Sebastian,” Jim says, eyeing Sebastian as he takes off his coat and scarf, “I have plans for you and I to go eat uptown, I have reservations, don’t you dare.” he says as he deposits his tea cup on the table, scoots over closer to Sebastian and reaches a hand to his forehead. The back of his hand feels frigid on his skin and Sebastian knows he’s sick.

It’s almost funny how disgruntled Jim looks. Sebastian feels like he’s had too much smoke, his head’s spinning and he has to lie down.

“Oh dear, here we go. Stay right there.” Jim fusses.

He thinks he falls asleep. He can’t be sure because he dreams of silly things, unreal, impossible thing, but also of things that have happened or that could happen. He hears Jim walking through the flat and the sound his hard sole shoes make on the floor feel like they echo around in his head.

The echo gets louder and he feels his body roll towards a warm weight next to him, but he can’t be bothered to open his eyes to confirm it is Jim. He feels a wet pressure on his forehead and a soft drag on his cheek. A wet towel, he thinks, blessing its cold temperature. Jim’s fingers, he thinks, feeling an odd comfort settle in his mind. Hands of a man as dangerous as Jim Moriarty should never inspire comfort.

Every instinct of survival in Sebastian should want him to flee, to crawl and hide someplace away from Jim, but those instincts were silenced months ago when he felt the electricity between then, in a dark smoky basement room, cards on the table. Felt it like you hear a whip cracking in the air before a lion jumps through a hoop.

So he lets his mind drift and come back to the hand that cradles his face, brushes his cheek, hold his wrist and feels his pulse. He’s so far away from reason that he doesn’t question the brush of lips on his forehead when the wet towel is removed.

\--

It’s hours before he wakes up, head foggy, but clear enough to know where he is and to recognize Jim’s figure, sitting in the cushioned chair by the window, silhouetted by the inelegant orange light pouring from the streetlamps. Sebastian sits up, parched, thinking of a glass of water. Before he says anything, Jim’s head turns to almost look over his shoulder and he says;

“Bedside table”, his voice rough.

Sebastian looks and finds a glass of water with a straw from which he drinks large gulps.

“Thanks.”

Jim scuffs and looks back at the window. Sebastian can see his reflection. It might be the fever playing with him, but Jim looks somehow faraway, not quite here.

They sit in silence for a few moments, Sebastian appreciating the comfort of the bed, of Jim’s bed he realizes, and the quiet of the room. His body is somewhat sore and his head feels foggy, but he’s conscious and pretty comfortable, considering. Jim speaks up unexpectedly;

“He was my father. The man you killed.”

In his reflection, his jaw ticks. He continues, quietly;

“He, uh. He killed my mother, ran away and changed his name. The bastard.”

There’s a slight laugh at the end of that, bitter, sad.

“It had to be done, Seb. It had to be you. I needed you to kill him.”

Then, Sebastian realizes why this was so important to Jim, why he had to go all the way to Siberia to kill a single boring man.

“It’s okay. I understand.”

They stay sat in silence for another minute, then Jim gets up and sits by Sebastian’s side on the bed. He reaches out to touch Sebastian’s face gently, he palm warm against Seb’s cheek. Sebastian closes his eyes for a moment.

“Thank you.” Jim says, looking him in the eyes.

Seb nods gently, head still swimming. He feels so tired and so sorry for this little man.

“Of course. Anything for you.”

Jim smiles dimly at that, his thumbs stroking Seb’s cheek for a moment, then dropping his hand to his side and casting his eyes to the floor.

“Just rest, alright? Get well.” Jim swallows, then on an inhale, says “Then we can get breakfast tomorrow morning!” and gets up from the bed.

Before Jim crosses the threshold, Seb thinks to thank him for the care he’s showing him. He clears his throat, but what comes out is “Goodnight, Jim.”

“Goodnight, Sebastian” his boss says as turn the light off and closes the door.

**Author's Note:**

> "On slow and smoky fire thou burn'st and art consumed,  
> O thou, my soul!   
> On slow and smoky fire thou burn'st and art consumed,  
> With hidden dole.
> 
> Thou droopest like Sebastian, pierced with pointed arrows,  
> Harassed and spent.   
> Thou droopest like Sebastian, pierced with pointed arrows,  
> Thy flesh all rent.
> 
> Thy foes encircle thee and watch with gleeful laughter  
> And bended bow.   
> Thy foes encircle thee and watch with gleeful laughter  
> Thy torments slow.
> 
> The embers burn, and gentle is the arrow's stinging  
> 'Neath the evening sky.   
> The embers burn, and gentle is the arrow's stinging   
> When the end draws nigh.
> 
> Why hastens not thy dream unto thy lips now pallid  
> With deadly drouth?   
> Why hastens not thy dream unto thy lips now pallid   
> To kiss thy mouth?"
> 
> \- Valery Yaklovich Bryusov


End file.
